


The Queen of Hearts (is always your best bet)

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Denial, F/M, Family Visit, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock closed his eyes and took a sharp breath. Time to broach it, then. The Obligation. “I have not forgotten the deal you strong-armed me into.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen of Hearts (is always your best bet)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amalia Kensington (amaliak01)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/gifts).



> This plotline is pure cracky nonsense. Seriously. It is so foolish. Probably ranks just below “must cuddle for warmth” or “pretending to be married.” Shhhh. Just go with it, alright? MacGuffin MacGuffin MacGuffin. Title comes from that old tune, "Desperado" (see end notes). 
> 
> Guys, **[Amalia Kensington (amaliak)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/pseuds/Amalia%20Kensington)** is just _the bees knees_. I thought this was done yesterday. Cut to 3,500 words later, and she is still cheering me on, correcting my pronouns and catching my typos. Bless her. A real live fandom hero!

It had been coming a long time, this. A decade, in fact; just prior to his last stint in rehab. The date was seared in his mind. That awful day, the terms of the agreement had been made clear: His cooperation, and he would be permitted, _aided_ , into rehab a final time. Without, he would be on his own, and for good. He remembered his mother’s tears, his father’s silent pleas, their collective broken hearts. He’d told so many lies (to himself especially) that it has been easy to spout another. A few small words, the flourish of a signature, and the deal was done.

Why then, as the ten year mark of their accord approached, did Sherlock Holmes find himself dwelling on their old agreement more and more often? Why, when for years after, he had refused to speak of it, first out of resentment, then, later, out of stolid denial of its existence, as if by ignoring it he could invalidate the conditions of The Obligation that had been laid out? Why, when, his parents had, for nearly all that time, appeared even less willing to address the elephant in the room? It baffled him.

Which is where Molly Hooper came in.

His plan was simple. The intention, of course, was simply to prolong the lie. Introduce a variable that would aid stability, engender calm, and promote the kind of gentle–and _distant_ –reaction he wanted to ensure for however long his parents insisted on drawing breath.

A nice, not-quite truth, not-quite _un_ truth.

He could not say with any certainty where his relationship with Molly stood after the turbulent events of the past year. A little outing to patch up their oddly indefinable friendship couldn’t hurt. And if his parents made assumptions, who was he to correct?

Hardly complicated, he figured.

 _Come to Baker Street. Friday. Noon._ He texted. Then, thinking the better of it, added:

 _Please_.

 

* * *

 

“Where are we?” Molly asked. She stared out the window, watching the green English countryside pass alongside the A11.

From the driver’s seat, Sherlock answered, “Tetford. Lincolnshire Wolds.”

“Thank you, Sherlock, that’s immensely helpful given my well-known inability to read road signs,” she replied, sardonic. The look she gave him communicating something like: _Prat_. “I mean, _why_? What’s here?”

“I told you,” he said by way of no explanation whatsoever.

“No,” Molly corrected, giving him a sharp look. “You told me you needed assistance and to pack for two nights. You said nothing about where we were going.”

“Visit.”

“Who?”

He was uncharacteristically reluctant. After a beat, he admitted to her (very quickly), “Myparents.”

She paused, taken aback. “You’re joking.”

“Is that something I do, generally?”

“This is...unexpected.”

“Yes.”

“We’re popping round your parents house. For the weekend.”

“Yes.”

“Your...parents.”

“You keep saying that. I _do_ have them. I didn’t just materialize–”

“–out of Mycroft’s head?”

He surprised himself by laughing at that, which made Molly relax a little. Still, the question remained on her mind, apparently. “Why _are_ you bringing me?” she said, suspiciously.

He feigned having thought it through: “Mmm, John and Mary were busy; Mycroft is out of the country; Lestrade’s on duty; Billy Wiggins hates my mother’s cooking, and even I would not be so unkind as to submit my own flesh and blood to Mrs. Hudson for more than five minutes,” he said in quick (false) summary.

Molly scowled. “You’d pick Billy Wiggins over me?!” she protested, indignant.

He smirked, glancing toward the passenger side. “Joking.”

“I can see why you don’t do it often.” Pursing her lips, she arched an eyebrow. “You should be more appreciative of me,” she said, airily, straightening the skirt of her flower patterned dress.

“Should I?”

They pulled up a long driveway toward a lone, picturesque red cottage and surrounding gardens. “Yes,” she replied, studying the scene before her. “You might have ended up with Anderson.”

 

* * *

 

Millicent Llewellyn Holmes found herself surprised by her youngest son (hardly unusual), though pleasantly so (which was), when he arrived on the appointed day and time had told her he would visit. A minor miracle. That he wasn’t alone...well.

“Sherlock, you’ve brought a friend,” she said, meeting him at the gate. It always pleased her to see her youngest in the company of others; too much alone, her boy. She was, however, also not a fool, and as such was somewhat wary, remembering the last "friend" Sherlock brought home. As well as his particular skill set.

"Have you another stray?" Millie inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"A pathologist," he corrected. "Roughly the same dress sensibilities as my homeless network though..." he said, with a condescending once-over.

The (small; lovely; ever so _slightly_ mismatched) girl shot him a dark look. “I’ll be sure to let Phillip know how much you like road trips,” she whispered. And with more than a hint of malice in her voice, Millie was keen to observe. How interesting, she thought, daring to admit her curiosity was piqued.

“Molly, Mummy. Mummy, Molly,” Sherlock breezed, barely pausing to acknowledge either.

Millie sighed, glancing up in irritation. “Oh for God’s sake,” she huffed. “Horrible introduction.”

"Hullo," the girl, Molly, said sweetly, if uncertain. “Molly Hooper. Friend of Sherlock’s?”

Millie’s consternation melted. The dear. Every possibility she had no idea she'd end up here of all places. Terrible manners, that boy. "Lovely to meet you,” the girl said, smiling self-consciously.

Millie offered one of her own, taking Molly Hooper in arm. "Millicent Holmes. I feel very much the same, darling. Come in, come in! Please, you must call me Millie.”

With great ceremony, she ushered them into the house, taking their coats and demanding Sherlock take their bags upstairs. He sighed in annoyance, but did as he was asked. And after only one request, too. _Very_ interesting...

“Father!” she called. She shooed Molly into the living room before padding to the study. “Timothy,” she hissed at the jamb, excited. “Your son has actually shown up,” she told him, her voice conveying incredulity and salacious nature of the matter.

Over the pages of _The Guardian_ , her husbands’ eyebrows rose dramatically. “Is it Easter already?” he asked, skeptical. He re-folded his paper and regarded her, overly serious. “He’s not dying again and hasn’t told us, has he? _You’re_ not dying and haven’t told me, are you?”

Millie swatted his shoulder. “That is not even remotely funny.” She looped her arm in his. “You aren’t going to believe it but—He’s _brought a girl_.”

 

* * *

 

“Wow.” Molly looked around the quaint country home, astounded. Her eyes were drawn everywhere at once, from the large fireplace to the brightly painted walls and shelves, chock with books, souvenirs and knick knacks. It was...so...not Sherlock. Apart from the clutter, maybe. “This is where you grew up?”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock huffed.

“There is nothing unfortunate about it!” she exclaimed, one side of her mouth ticking up in _maximum delight_. “It's wonderful! So cozy."

"Exactly. I was bored to tears."

“Not surprised,” she said, giving him a knowing look. Spying a cabinet of photographs, she gave an involuntary little squeal of excitement, rushing over to discover what she could about the teenage years of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock stepped quickly in front of her, obstructing her view, as he quickly began placing them all face down.

“Sherlock,” she protested, trying to dip under his arm to sneak a peak. He kept her firmly at bay, taking her arms and walking her backward until she tipped into a deeply comfortable armchair. She was faintly annoyed, but to be honest, she was even more amused that he cared at all.

“I’m told we have a guest of honor,” a tall and cheerful man announced, appearing over her left shoulder. He smiled gently from just inside the door. He pressed his hands into his pockets, and wore a bright turquoise bow-tie. With the blueness of his eyes, bright and amused, and an oddly crooked little smile, he could only be Sherlock’s father.

“Yes, I’ve arrived,” Sherlock quipped, flopping into the chair opposite Molly.

The older man smirked at her, as if sharing a private joke. _Oh please_. “I meant this lovely young lady,” he beamed.

“Molly Hooper,” Molly said. “Your son was just hiding photographs from me.”

"Oh, don't mind those," Mr. Holmes replied, eyes sparkling. He bent down close to her as if to divulge a secret, beckoning her to follow. "I keep the terribly awkward ones in my study. Helps remind me my sons aren't completely super-human."

Molly stuck her tongue between her teeth, scrunching her shoulders in glee. She threw her sour companion a triumphant glance of devilish delight, and skipped off with Sherlock Holmes’ sweet, teasing father.

 

* * *

 

Right, well, embarrassing photographs. Should have thought about that. Ditto embarrassing stories and embarrassing parents. Surveying the situation, Sherlock was willing to admit (privately) that perhaps (ehhh, _perhaps_ ) this particular plan–a bit blurrily composed, and without his dwelling on the whys and the hows and the possible outcomes, so disconcerting were his emotional matrices arranged–was not his best. Albeit, it did seem to be going a long way towards improving Molly’s attitude towards him. But some consultation might be necessary.

He wandered into the kitchen, eyes trained on his phone.

"So," his mother said, setting teacups on a tray. "You have a friend."

"Y-up,” Sherlock replied, mid-text. The question: John’s opinion, or Mary’s?

"You met her through work?"

"Y-up." Mary’s. Definitely Mary’s.

“She’s a lovely thing.”

“Mmm. Does excellent work with cadavers.” Text concluded he tossed his phone atop the kitchen table and reached for a biscuit.

“I love a woman of science.”

“So do I,” Sherlock said, and pecked her cheek (and sneaking several ginger snaps as he did). His mother’s mouth twitched with amusement, though she swatted his hand away from the rest of the sweets. She clearly was neither fooled nor charmed by him. From the stove, the kettle began to whistle.

“Since I’ve no idea how to broach this, I’ll simply go ahead and ask–are you seeing her?

“Presently, no.”

She gave a dramatic sigh. “You know what I mean; colloquially. Are you seeing her _socially_ , not literally, rotten boy.”

“I am in the process,” he lied, sticking to the plan. Right. Misdirection. “I thought she might enjoy…”

“What?”

He waved a hand vaguely. “This...business.”

She gave him a long look, as if trying to decide if he was telling the truth. She seemed to accept it. “Well, she seems nice enough. Unlike that other one you brought round–”

“Billy just started a course at Imperial, by the way. Thanks to my endless charity and patronage.”

“ _Billy_ ,” she growled. “That was his name.”

“‘It’s amazing how you’ve turned his life around, Sherlock,’” he mimicked. “‘Wonderful influence you’ve been on him, Sherlock,’ ‘However do you ever _find the time_ , Sherlock?’”

“At least she’s not liable to poison me–I should hope.”

“Unlikely, though do not doubt her capability. She’d make the best murderer of anyone I know, come to think...” he thought out loud, admiringly.

“High praise, coming from you, I should think.”

“Indeed,” he said, feeling oddly warm.

“I, for one, like her jumper. Rather...colorful. Sign of a strong personality, such a carefree sense of style.”

Sherlock hummed around the biscuit in his mouth, distracted by Molly’s hypothetical murdering prowess. He leaned back against the banquet, which was covered in roughly several hundred thousand or so vintage and mid-century cookbooks. He made a mental note to consult his mother’s collection of kitchen kitsch in the event he encountered a case hinging on stomach curdling 19th century recipes. _A Year of Victorian Puddings_ (ugh!) seemed ripe for nefarious exploitation...He was willing to bet Molly could devise a powerfully potent and tasteless–

“Biting your tongue?” his mother’s voice interrupted. “You’re usually something of a snob about these sorts of things,” she said, pouring milk into a small china cup and adding the sugar dish to the tea tray.

“Implying that there are some things about which I am _not_ a snob?” Sherlock responded, testily.

“More than you let on, actually,” she replied without missing a beat.

Sherlock ignored her. “Molly is Molly,” he shrugged, craning his neck to look out the window. “Very little she does bothers me. Little good my interference would do, anyway; certain particulars are ingrained,” he said, studying his fingernails, feigning casual indifference. “She’s not likely to change, nor are her jumpers.”

“Oh?” Eyebrow raise, there. “And why is that?”

He heaved a great sigh. “Early childhood trauma. Mother died when she was seven. Mother was a primary school teacher; lots of bright, happy colors!” he mimed, gesticulating wildly. “Her father fell gradually into depression for years afterward, eventually succumbing to cancer of the liver. Not so happy, then. She associates joy with her memories of her mother alive and her father healthy, and therefore is drawn to loud patterns and color schemes most generally appealing to small, idiot children. And while the late Mrs. Hooper very probably did not deserve to die, she was, undoubtedly, guilty of a great many sartorial crimes.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” his mother tutted. “Poor lamb.”

“My pathologist is not a lamb,” he corrected. “More a lion than anything,” he muttered, mostly to himself, and traced his jaw, remembering the ferocity of a Molly betrayed. “Anyway, that’s besides the point.”

“Which is?’

“I like her as she _is_. Why would I _want_ her to change?”

Tea tray in hand, his mother paused on her way to the living room, piercing him with yet another of her dizzying array of inscrutable looks. The corner of her mouth hitched up proudly. “Come. Tea.”

As she went he frowned. He wondered, why, when presented with the perfect opportunity to bring it up, she had not once mentioned their long ago agreement.

 

* * *

 

“And that’s Arizona in...‘96, I think it was. Oh, sorry. I’m not boring you, am I?”

Molly whipped her head around, eyes wide. “No! No, not at all! I’m sorry, forgive me,” Molly said, shaking her head. “I’m finding it hard reconciling all this... _normal_ with _Sherlock_.”

“For what it’s worth, we’re not all geniuses,” Timothy Holmes said. “I’m the family fool.”

“I’m not sure I believe you,” Molly answered, her mouth tipping to one side. “What did you do for a living?”

“Oh, chemical engineering, some.” He dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, as if recalling a spell of bad weather. “But most of my adult life I’ve made do as a bit of a writer.”

“What is it you write?” Molly asked, curious. Her mouth curved into a smile.

He handed her a volume from the bookshelf. Molly thumbed through the pages. _Surely not…_

Millie called something from the living room. Timothy urged her on, saying he’d only be a moment. Molly wandered back to the living room and sat in a chair by the fireplace, flipping through the pages before her, agog.

Sherlock handed her a teacup.

She accepted it, gazing at him in wonder. “Your father is a _poet_ ,” she crowed.

Sherlock collapsed untidily into a chair, giving her an epic eyeroll. “Please don’t remind me. It’s _so_ embarrassing."

“I just can’t believe it. Any of it. This is definitely not where I thought you came from.”

“Why? What did you expect?”

“I dunno,” she said. “Posh boarding schools. Absent parents. Broken home, maybe? But no, you actually make _more_ sense now.”

“How,” he drawled, annoyed.

“You are,” she pressed her tongue against her cheek, searching for the words. “ _Accustomed_ to being _indulged_.”

“I’d have been better off with Anderson,” he grumbled.

“Keep telling yourself that,” she replied, crooking a brow at him.

* * *

The afternoon passed quickly. The Holmeses traded stories of their sons’ youth for some of Molly’s own professional adventures with them.

(“Was it _really_ Jack the Ripper’s confessional?” Millie asked, hanging on every word.

“Honest to God,” Sherlock mumbled, slouched over in his chair.)

They asked all manner of smart, insightful questions about her background and training, which Sherlock often elaborated upon, to her surprise. And with praise. She gave him a questioning look. He avoided her eye.

When evening rolled around, he distracted himself by making a fire in the hearth. Mr. Holmes had been preparing a warm country stew for much of the gray, chilly day, and between the warmth in the house, in her belly, and in her hosts’ pleasant smiles, Molly was feeling happier and more relaxed than she had in a long time.

She tried again on more than one occasion to catch Sherlock’s eye and smile her thanks, but he appeared anxious and a bit distracted. He hadn’t smoked all day. Irritable for lack of a fix, she figured. Instead, she focused her attention on his parents, in part to to draw some of their attention away from him, and in part because they seemed to be enjoying her company as much as she was theirs.

“How long have you been married?” Molly asked over dinner.

“Oh, several thousand years or so,” Timothy Holmes said, cheerily. “Late Pleistocene was it?”

“God, it _has_ been an age, I feel sometimes,” Millie added.

“How did you meet?”

Sherlock sighed.

“We knew one another from university, distantly, and both ended up on fellowship in Boston one summer.”

“I asked her out for coffee and she turned me down flat.” Timothy’s eyes were bright, twinkling fondly at the memory. “She was far too busy for me. Spent most of her time dazzling the mathematics department at MIT and making men fall in love with her left and right.”

Millie Holmes looked a bit smug. “I was quite the catch in my day. ‘Hot stuff.’”

“You’re still ‘hot stuff.’”

Sherlock groaned.

Timothy glanced at him, then gave Molly a wink, ignoring his protestations. “I did, eventually, manage to convince her to come see a show with me at the old Club 47 in Harvard Square. By the time the summer was over, I knew I never wanted to let her out of my sight. Before we went back to Oxford and all the humdrum, we took a last trip to New York. We saw Sam Cooke at Birdland. I asked her to marry me while we danced to ‘London by Night.’”

Molly sighed happily. “That’s just the most wonderful story.”

“Love America. Since then we’ve visited at least once a year. Such memories,” Millie recalled, fondly. “Mycroft was conceived at Woodstock, you know.”

That, apparently, was the final straw. “Hoh-kay.” Sherlock said, shoving back his chair and bolting for the door.

Millie frowned at his retreating figure. “Terribly repressed, isn’t he? Can’t imagine how he got that way. We’ve always been shockingly liberal about sexuality.”

Molly couldn’t contain her laughter, so she didn’t bother trying.

* * *

His parents, she decided, as plates were collected and tea with lemon cake served, were the most bizarre, perfect pair anyone could ask for. They were square dancing champions who had hiked the Annapurna circuit; they were brilliant academics who had taught and lectured around the globe–Japan, Germany, India, and the US, at least–and still lead amazing, successful careers. Timothy had dozens of patents to his name, and had poetry published in _The Paris Review_ and _Granta Magazine_.

In one wall photo, she thought she spied a younger Millie Holmes at the arm of Margaret Thatcher.

“Is that you?” she asked.

“With Maggie? God, yes. Smart as a whip, no matter what else one thinks, and one hell of a tough cookie, that one. Couldn’t make sense of her policy ideas, mind, but I liked her. Mostly. Even if she was known to call me a ‘number-crunching hedonist,’ on occasion.”

“She makes me so proud,” Timothy beamed, placing his arm around his wife’s shoulder.

“Always wanted to spit back something along the lines of ‘you black-heart, bottom-line fascist,’ but I’m afraid my stalwart Britishness simply wouldn’t allow me.” She waved her hand. “Anyway. Ancient history, that. You’d barely have been out of nappies.”

Molly leaned her head on her hand, dreamily listening to the Holmses chatter and argue and correct and reminisce, adoring them more and more with each bizarre anecdote they shared. Eventually, though, her fatigue got the best of her.

“Oh! Look at the time, we’ve kept you up. You must be dead on your feet.” Millie jumped to her feet to collect the mugs.

She blinked sleepily, considering the time. “Oh no, I don’t...Hasn’t Sherlock got back yet?”

Timothy shrugged. “One never knows with him. He may be out walking, or have nodded off in the cottage out back. One of his favorite spots as a boy. Forever hiding from Myc in there. He and Redbeard.”

“Redbeard?”

Millie showed her down the hall, pointing to one of dozens of photographs cluttering the walls. “His childhood pet. Big, lovable Irish setter. Inseparable, those two. Broke his heart when we had to put him down.” A small, impish-looking Sherlock laughed in the grass as he was tackled by his beloved dog.

Molly studied the photo. How different that little boy looked from the man she knew. And how similar.

She followed Millie up the stairs, but the image stayed with her long after.

Upstairs, she was lead to an open door. Millie came in behind her, placing her bag at the end of the bed. “In here, dear. Washroom is along the hall, past Myc’s old room.”

The room with her things was as homey as the others she had seen. Like so many other rooms in the Holmes' home, the warm sage green paint and cherry furniture gave it a comfortable, welcoming feel. Along the wall with the bed, two large windows looked out over the pond and garden. Between them lay a framed Smiths poster. On another, a huge periodic table of elements was tacked beside a rendering of the electromagnetic spectrum. A massive bookcase lay opposite, next to a closet, dresser, and a battered old guitar that lay in the far corner. Various academic awards littered surfaces here and there. Sheet music. An old pair of trainers stuck out from under the bed. As the details registered, the penny dropped.

“Oh, no, I can’t take Sherlock’s room–” she turned, objecting.

“Nonsense,” Millie replied, waving away her concerns. “About time he had a girl in here.” And with that, she gave a cheeky wink and bid Molly goodnight.

 

* * *

 

He snuck back in after midnight, his mind still racing, his thoughts jumbled, and confused as they ever had been. Deeply irritating. The texts he’d received from Mary did not promote confidence in his emotional state.

**_You care a great deal for her and from what I can tell, you probably always have and you're just wasting time by lying to yourself about it. - MW_**

**_It’s the real reason you brought her up there in the first place, you git. - MW_ **

**_Just be honest, Sherlock. With yourself, and with Molly. - MW_ **

Indeed.

Now, as he climbed the stairs in the silent house, he felt a bit of remorse for abandoning Molly much of the evening. At the very least he might have asked her to walk with him. But, then, she’d taken to his parents company since they’d arrived. It hardly seemed fair to deprive her of what was clearly an enjoyable social setting.

And she had been. Enjoying it. He was certain. And not at all surprised by it. Molly was kind and sweet and hadn't had a parental figure in her life since medical school. It was only natural that her gravitation to his own was predictably strong. The thought calmed him.

Shucking his coat inside his room, he ran his fingers through his hair, letting his eyes adjust. Toeing off his shoes, he was undoing the buttons of his shirt and about to curl into his bed when he paused, looking at it properly…

The tableau made him freeze. Something jolted in the back of his brain, prompting amygdalic responses he’d not felt before. Well, not this _strong_. Adrenaline and...other things...pumped through his veins at the sight.

Curled on her side, in a bright wash of moonlight, was Molly Hooper, asleep in his childhood bed.

Sherlock scowled.

_Mummy..._

 

* * *

 

Whatever sour mood Sherlock had been in the previous night persisted into the next morning. He frowned as Molly traipsed into the kitchen and accepted a mug of coffee.

“Good morning,” she said, leering. “You know, I never pegged you for a Smiths fan,” she said, giving him a teasing grin.

“Oh ho ho, yes,” Millie said, exasperated. “Spent most of his teenage years alone with a book, listening to that band. Obsessed. If you weren’t Morrissey’s biggest fan,” she said turning to him, “I’ll eat that hat you’re always wearing about.”

“I didn’t–! I don’t–!” he started to say, but cut off, irritated in too many different ways, apparently.

Molly grinned. “Really, this explains _so_ much.”

He pouted, shucking his paper. “Shut up, Molly.”

Millie smacked the back of his head with the newspaper. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she growled.

“Sorry,” he said, shrinking down a hair.

Molly decided, then and there, that all she wanted in life was to be half the terrific force of nature that was Sherlock’s mum.

 

* * *

 

Despite his sour, uncertain mood after a difficult night on the sofa (Why difficult? He often slept on sofas, or not at all, without finding himself so anxious), the combination of a great deal of coffee and fresh air helped restore his spirits. His parents were avid explorers of the country paths and hiking trails the country over, and as such dragged them off on a local tour of all things pastoral: around woods and glens and glades; up hills and around streams. Though he mostly found country life tedious, it was agreeable in many ways. The weather was mild. The air was fresh. Sherlock kept in with the conversation every now and again, but for the most part was silent.

Despite the lie (half-truth) he had successfully told, he felt anxious and uncertain, especially after his conversation with Mary. Why _had_ he brought Molly? Surely her presence wasn’t actually necessary to escaping stupid familial agreements, though it certainly helped make his case. And of course, she’d been a great deal happier with him since they had arrived, and seemed to get on well with his mother and father, and had smiled more in his presence (and actually at him) over the course of the past twenty-four hours than she had in the entire previous year.

And yes, he enjoyed her company. And her help. And the look of her in his bed. But that hardly meant–

Up the path, he heard his father say, “Oh, it’s great fun. Passes the time. Well, that and the band.”

“You are not!” Molly exclaimed. “You’re in a band?”

“Oh, yes,” his father exclaimed. “The Knights Errant,” he said, proudly. “Couple of us old academics from here abouts. Semi-retired and keen to live out the last our days pretending to be Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, thank you very much.”

Behind, Sherlock quipped, “Think you could keep up with them these days, actually.” He caught his mother’s eye as she chuckled her agreement.

“That’s fantastic,” Molly said. “Do you play violin, or whatsit–strings, like Sherlock?”

“Guitar, naturally,” he replied. “What? Don’t I have the look of a rock god?”

“Christ,” Sherlock sighed. “You’ve already got your dedicated groupies–”

“A wild and _hopelessly_ debaucherous lot, we are. Complete sluts,” Millie jokingly whispered to Molly, who snorted indelicately at such an unnecessarily vulgar description for a group of sexagenarians. Ugh. He hoped.

“–must you collect others?” Sherlock bit out.

“Hush,” Molly said, dropping back and linking her arm in his. “We’ll be back to London and to all the glory of the great Consulting Detective soon enough. It’s not every day I get to hang out with rock stars, eh?” she giggled. He couldn’t help it: he rolled his eyes. Molly wrinkled her nose, scowling playfully, but she didn’t draw away from him. He found himself not wanting her to.

“What sorts of songs do you–”

“Perform? Oh, Johnny Cash,” his father said, nodding sagely. “Lots and lots of Johnny Cash.”

“Really,” her nose scrunched. Adorably.

 _Adorably?_ That couldn’t possibly–

No, it was. Yes. Adorable. His chest felt tight. Sherlock exhaled through his nose in consternation.

“Oh, yes,” his father went on. “I do a decent impersonation of the man in black, you know. Chalk it up to my wildly misspent youth.”

“Caused lots of scandal at Harrow, did you, Timothy?” Millie asked pointedly.

He looked over his walking stick. “I will have you know, oh ye of little faith, that I once snuck an owl into a proctored exam room. Sat it on the the bust of Athena in Fossil Foskett’s classical history practicum. It shat _everywhere_.”

“Folsom Prison worthy, indeed,” Millie said, rolling her eyes, linking arms with him.

“Oh my God!” Molly snorted in laughter. She ducked her head against Sherlock’s arm, tears running down her face. “Sherlo-o-ock!” she stuttered, sniffling with laughter. He felt his mouth rise. The feeling in his chest again. The one that had become more prevalent in the last months. The one that had certainly been present last night when he’d found her asleep in his bedroom.

“They aren’t terrible,” he admitted to her. “They do a good version of _25 Minutes To Go_ ,” he said. “My favorite.”

“It would be,” she giggled against his sleeve.

Molly pressed Timothy into agreeing to play for them. And so, later, they sat at the aged piano, singing warbly old American folk songs. His father strummed his old guitar as Molly brought the piano (timidly) to life, tripping over lyrics and beaming as she and his father jumped into the chorus.

“What an extraordinary creature,” his mother said, eyes bright.

“Yes,” he agreed, leaning on the jamb to the kitchen. He had not always thought so. He was rarely so wrong, but when he was, oh. His miscalculations fell off by magnitudes.

He studied his mother. Her years-old silence bothered him. Despite all the legal lengths she had gone to a decade before, in all that time she had said almost nothing of it. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a sharp breath. Time to broach it, then. The Obligation. “I have not forgotten the deal you strong-armed me into.”

His mother turned to him, blinking. The full force of her gaze felt like a mile underwater. She beckoned him into the kitchen and sat heavily at the table. “Oh, Sherlock. I am not sure I could ever hold you to that.”

“What?” he asked, his hackles raising. "You made me sign a bloody _contract_."

She waved a hand. “An extreme decision made by a mother under duress in equally extreme circumstances. Your brother had so recently sworn he had no interest in family life. And Sherlock, oh, you can’t know.”

Her face was masked by grief at the memories of the time. “I was so desperate with fear that we would lose you to demons I had no ability to fight. Could not protect you from. Yes, I sent you rehab on the promise of grandchildren but, oh Sherlock. I can’t truly _make_ you do anything. Not if you don’t want to. And certainly not if that lovely girl does not want to, either.”

He studied his hands. “She has cared for me for...some time.”

“I expect she must know the man you are, then. In all forms.”

He averted his gaze, knowing very well the many lesser qualities his mother is referencing. “She does.”

His mother sat higher, turning towards the sound of music cascading from the far room. “Then she is even more remarkable than I have given her credit for.”

One finger circled the space below his collarbone, finding ridged skin and a circuitous line of scar tissue. “She saved me.”

“What?”

He came to. “Well, no, _I_ saved me. But when I was shot, my consciousness chose to confront me in her image. That unconscious choice, feeling, sentiment—It enabled me to focus, and provided insight which allowed me to survive.”

He paused. “Molly is...special. Even amongst the very few I call _friend_.”

“And why is it that you have brought her here, Sherlock?” Mummy asked.

He shrugged, backing into the lie. But also not. “I had hoped to gain your approval,” he said quickly.

She narrowed her eyes, stepping towards anger. “If you are asking do I think she is _worthy_ of you, then you will not like the answer I have to give, son of mine,” she said, her voice low.

"No that is _not_ what I am-" he bit off, irritated. "Do you _like_ her?"

"Of course!" She thought a moment. "Is she friends with John and Mary?"

"They are close."

"Myc?"

" _Mycroft_ hardly cares for me, let alone my choice of companions."

"You give your brother too little credit."

"You give him too _much_."

Mummy shrugged in deference, lifting her chin. "I've always loved him more. He takes me to the theater."

He smirked. She grinned.

“But you would find it...suitable?” He looked to her, uncertain.

“Oh, my idiot boy,” his mother laughed, utterly appalled. She clutched his face in her hands. “Sherlock, I absolutely do. But it is not _me_ who you must convince.”

His mother left him to his own devices. As he sat, listening to the sound of occasionally off-rhythm country music, he looked down, weighing the choices before him. His mother had absolved him of his promise. Had all but admitted the agreement was a fool’s errand in the first place. But his preoccupation with it–the source of his confusion and irritability these past weeks and months ( _oh, much longer than that_ , an annoyingly familiar inner voice added)–all pointed to the fact that–

Sherlock drew a deep breath.

–he did not entirely _want_ to be released from it.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think of her?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

Timothy considered his inquiry. Like his son, he took great care with words, appreciating precision and accuracy and the _saying of what one means to say_.

 _Unlike_ his son, however, he was careful with how he used them.

“It is all the darkness of midwinter,” he said, quoting a poem he had written some decades before, for an altogether different, though (he suspected) equally extraordinary young woman. “And she inspires the spring.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is that all?”

“Put it another way,” Timothy Holmes advised with a wink, “the queen of hearts, Sherlock, is always your best bet.”

To his great surprise, his son grinned. And made a request.

 

* * *

 

“Thought I might take a walk,” Sherlock said. He shrugged into his coat at the kitchen door. “Join me?”

“Oh,” Molly said. “Alright.”

Full night was not yet upon them; the sky shifted in color from pink-white to deepest blue. At the darkest edge, in the east, stars began to appear, one by one. The air was brisk and cool. Somewhere a barn owl hooted in the long shadows. The smell of burning wood and still water infused his senses. Waves of memory lapped at him from the past.

Near the water’s edge, a picnic table waited below a large oak tree. He perched on the table, resting his feet on the bench. “I used to come here when I was a child. Pretended it was my pirate ship. I’d climb to the branches and look out over the water, imagining I was in the rigging.”

“Plotting your great adventures,” Molly smiled, staring up into the dry, bare branches. “Thank you,” she said, after a quiet moment. “For bringing me. It’s really...nice.”

“Mmm.”

“Your parents are wonderful.”

“They have their moments, I suppose.”

She laughed brightly. He looked to her, enjoying the sound though unable to discern the source of her amusement. “What?”

"Nothing,” she laughed, wiping her eyes. “Just picturing you as a stroppy teenager.”

“I was not–”

“‘Sitting around his bedroom with a book, listening to The Smiths,’" she quoted, grinning. “Sherlock! You were the _quintessential_ stroppy teenager.”

“Regret ever introducing you to my mother,” he muttered.

"I like your mum," Molly said, toeing a stone with her shoe. “She’s weird and funny and a bit sassy.”

“More than a bit,” he agreed. "And yours?"

She looked uncertainly at him. He supposed it was a fair reaction; he’d never asked anything so personal before. "Oh. Um, dead."

"Yes, so decomposing. Got that. When she was alive then, Molly."

She shrugged. “I don’t remember very much, to be honest. She was nice. Happy. Liked to sing. She took us to church on Sundays when I was small. She sang there sometimes."

"Didn't know you were religious."

"Far from it. But she was Italian, so. Kind of goes with the territory."

Curious. He would not have guessed it. He turned and gave her a perplexed once-over. “That is surprising.”

She looked at him, the barest glimmer of amusement in her eye. "Thought my exotic good looks and flair for drama gave it away,” she said, droll. She stuck her hands in her pockets and climbed beside him on the picnic table. They sat shoulder to shoulder, looking out.

“You know,” she said quietly, watching the sky in the pond, the water in the sky. “Sometimes I’m so jealous of you, Sherlock,” she sighed. “You have so much, and think so little of it.”

“I know.”

“Your perfect home. Your mad, cheeky parents....” She shook her head. “But," she said, stopping. "I'm still not sure why I'm here."

"I wanted you to meet my parents." He stumbled. "I wanted you to _know_ my parents,” he repeated, emphasis and phrasing slightly different.

“Why?”

“Sherlock,” Molly repeated, her brow furrowed. “Why did you bring me here?”

The last of the purpling-pink dusk lit her face with a warm glow. Her cheeks were rosy in the cold. She exhaled, small clouds of air puffing out, dissipating in the growing dark, betraying the quickness of her breath. Her brows furrowed, and she looked at him with concern. “Are you alright?” she said, touching his arm.

Mary’s words came back to him. _Just be honest, Sherlock. With yourself, and with Molly._

He looked to her small, pale face and made his confession. “I wanted to you to know my family, Molly Hooper, because I would like for you to be part of it.”

“What?” she let go of his arm quickly, leaning away. “What, I-I don’t–”

He jumped to his feet, pacing a line, searching for the focus that so often helped him in the past. “Do I understand love?” he asked, hypothetically. “For most of my adult life I would have said I understood the underlying principles of it: the psychological, evolutionary and biochemical roots, and the corollary actions that are often the result: jealousy, anger, violence. Beyond that, I knew very little. Nothing, in fact, save what I had observed of my parents and the few rare and happy arrangements I encountered. I told myself I was content to keep it as such. _Alone_ served my purposes and made me better for it. My perspective, Molly, was...narrow, to say the least; I saw only what I wanted to see.

“In my eyes, the bonds of friendship and romance were encumbrances that had no place in my life as I chose to live it, and it was not until I became friends with John Watson that I began to see how limited my point of view truly was.”

Molly’s mouth was a thin line. She sat still as a statue, eyes wide and...terrified? He looked to her, willing her to understand. “And, how much I had missed. It was not until my death that I realized how much I underestimated your importance in my life...And not until my return that I saw how much I had missed, well, you.” He swallowed, standing before her.

“I’ve–” he paused. “– _changed_ , Molly Hooper. My life is emptier when without the company of those I care about. John, Mary, their Ella. God, even Gideon–”

“Who?” she said, distantly.

“Gideon Lestrade? The DI you work with, you know, on occasion–”

“ _Greg_ Lestrade.”

“Yes, fine, Greg. Whatever. Anyway, as I was saying, about the caring. I do. Care. For you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Without you...I feel less. So, do I understand love, Molly? Yes. I think, now, I do. Well, possibly still in theory, mostly. Limited practical experience. Will probably cock it up a bit but John’s got _loads_ of experience and every now and again _he’s_ in the doghouse, which, really, you would think given the Watson’s turbulent–

“Tangent!” she all but shouted, blinking and shaking her head, trying to follow.

“Yes! Sorry. Um, so, well, what I meant to say. Mean to ask is: Molly Hooper. Will you... _be_...with...me?”

“What do you mean, ‘be?’” she repeated, fearful, frozen.

“I mean,” he looked down. “Well, work with me, to start.”

“We already–”

He shook his head. Not good. “No, I mean, work with me, _live_ with me,” he clarified. He dared look up, meeting her eyes, terrified of what he’d find.

He held out a ring. It was a very old ring, and had been in his family for many years. His hand shook a bit as he held it out. “Marry me?”

“You...want me?” she said, voice very small.

“Yes,” he breathed.

“For...always?”

“For always.”

“Like with...kissing...and babies?”

He nodded. “With kissing." He swallowed."And babies.”

She turned to look over both shoulders, as if searching for something.

“Not a joke. A-a trick, or...whatever?”

“Not a joke,” he said. The cool night air ghosted between them. “Not a trick.”

“Sherlock,” she look at him in astonishment. “You love me?”

Perhaps a demonstration was in order. He leaned in, pressing his face to hers, “I love you.” The words felt like relief. He cupped her jaw and kissed her, hopefully dispelling the last of her doubt. “Will you?”

“Y-yes!” She kissed him again. Hard.

The last of the afternoon light slipped beyond the horizon. The night grew darker, and colder. He hardly noticed. Not with Molly’s lips on his, and her arms around his neck. Not when he pulled them away from the picnic table to the small cottage where he’d passed so many of his lonely childhood days, shutting out the world and discarding their clothing, piece by piece. Not with Molly wrapped around him, stealing his breath and the last semblance of control from him, bit by agonizing bit.

As she dozed off to sleep, her damp skin against his, her hair spilling across his chest, Sherlock resolved to admit that Mary had been right. Also, possibly his parents.

(There was, apparently, a first time for everything.)

 

* * *

 

They told them the next morning, having been caught by both of the elder Holmeses sneaking in through the kitchen in yesterday’s clothes.

His mother preened with joy. His father doted on them both. Sherlock gloated.

Mycroft would be shocked. Shockingly shocked. The most shocked. He rarely succeeded in pulling one over his brother, but this, in addition to being fulfilling and spectacular and all manner of upbeat, happy and (admittedly) agreeable things, would definitely throw him for a loop. John too, come to think. Mary, though. Mary had known. Probably since meeting Molly. Probably since meeting _him_. Still, Sherlock thought, gleeful, he doubted she suspected this would be the outcome.

Oh, he _did_ enjoy confounding expectations.

Molly hugged his parents as the they made their goodbyes.

“I do hope we shall see you again very soon, my dear,” his mother said.

She blushed prettily. Sherlock smiled, smug. “Oh, I expect you will.”

“Goodbye, Mummy,” he said.

“Sherlock. My insufferably wonderful boy. Behave. Be good.”

“No, I dislike it,” he argued, frowning. “‘Play nice with the other children, Sherlock,’” he said. “‘Don’t drive me mad, Sherlock.’”

Millie scoffed, leaning in. “I didn’t say ‘nice,’ child mine,” she says, looking him level in the eye. “I said, be _good_.”

“C’mon,” Molly said, tugging his hand.

“Come again soon, my dear,” his father said, patting his shoulder.

“We will.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.” Molly smiled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Promise.”

 

* * *

 

“Ohhh, he’s changed,” Millie breathed, happy, wondrous. “In such a good way.”

She settled herself on the sofa beside her husband, fairly incandescent with joy. “Even more so than when he met John and Mary and that lovely detective fellow. Can we dare believe it? ”

“Hmm,” Timothy Holmes said by way of reply. He thought for a moment, before saying, “‘I acknowledge there is no sweetness / that doesn’t leave a stain.’”

Millie turned to him, a smile at her mouth. “You’re a very odd man, husband,” she said with great fondness.

“A dominant genetic trait in my family,” answered her beloved, loftily. “Luckily, it often base pairs with _indecent_ good looks.”

“Fool,” Millicent Holmes laughed, although (it must be said) she wholeheartedly agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> I love the shameless parallelism of Sherlock reminding Molly of her dad, and Sherlock’s mum going by “Millie.” I mean, it’s just too sweet. Speaking of which, dear Father Holmes’ quoted lines can be attributed to The Eagles (though the much-extolled [Johnny Cash does what I consider the best version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVa4oOX4xWE)) and to [Stephen Dunn](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/25957). “It is all the darkness of midwinter and she inspires the spring,” I confess, is nicked from one of my own rather half-hearted attempts at poetry.


End file.
